Purple Water and Fireflies

He was drowning, gasping, desperate for air.

Waves of water that were not arresting and cold, but surprisingly temperate. Strange. He thought that death would be cold and horrific.

But he was warm, despite his inability to breath.

Maybe it was just that he was drugged. That could explain everything, he mused, as he was pulled under the sea of purple water. And really, now that he really thought about it, this outlandish sea of violet could not possibly be a natural hue.

Damn. So it was the drugs, again.

He exhaled as forcibly as he could, pushing air out of his body through water that he was fairly certain was not actually there. Instead of bubbles, fireflies came fluttering from his lips, lighting up in synchronized patterns.

Yep. Definitely drugs.

He internally groaned. He hated this, these experiments. These crazy, messed-up hallucinations that he would have to endure until he would, inevitably, be brought back to the the brutal clarity of reality. To be forced to realize, once again, that real life was nothing but white walls, sharp needles, and harsh lights, for him.

He knew that was what was going to happen.

He knew it, and he hated it. He hated this existence, his existence, with every fiber of his being. And when he woke up, he swore to do it swinging and kicking, fighting for freedom…defiant, resilient, persistent, just like he always was…

But until then, he would drink in the purple water and exhale fireflies.

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